Remember Redbeard?
by Naika Grover
Summary: When loneliness strikes the heart of 221B, words are all that is left to be known.
1. The Best man

" Do you really think that you 'dropping' in every other day would stop me from being... Bored?" The words were nearly spat out with contempt as the other man approached, the expression that accompanied the words fitting for the description used in the mild yet poisonous sentence uttered by him.

"No, but I thought I would enjoy watching a moderate mind stagnate for a change, instead of dull, boring ones." The visitor said, smiling serenely, as he raised his umbrella and looked at the tip, checking for any dirt.

"Go. Away." These were hissed through clenched teeth.

"Do learn to stop pushing against a wall, Sherlock. Mummy has asked me to check upon you ever so often, so here I am. Believe me, I do not exactly enjoy these little... House visits either." Mycroft said, still keeping the infuriatingly insipid smile upon his posh and high face. Sherlock, on the other hand, had something of a scowl set on his features, as he regarded his brother with cold, calculating eyes. Eyes that spoke volumes of how capable he was of actually, harming his brother just to be rid of him. As they say, if looks could kill, Mycroft would be a pile of ashes that have been scattered to the four corners of this world.

The minor official, however, was not to be outdone. He kept the calm facade, not even batting an eyelid at his brother's gaze, instead looking around the room, trying to not wrinkle his nose at the bio-hazardous waste dump that his brother seemed to call a home. At least, when John had been there, there was some semblance of order, but John had left, and along with him the little sanity and tidiness that inhabited the flat on rare occasions.

"I see that you have made good progress on your.. Sheep lung experiment." Mycroft said, attempting to make small, familial conversation with his biological brother. Ha, if only people knew. A normal conversation between the Holmes brothers (not in the presence of their parents) would generally compromise of petty name-calling( "How is the new see-food diet working out, you fat git?") , comments ( "I see that you have become slow, Sherlock."), helpful advice ( "Get lost, Mycroft."), love ("I believe you should call mummy more often. She is worried."), more name-calling (" You arrogant prat"), more brotherly love ( "A stupid person like you should not call others an idiot, Sherlock."), promises of keeping in touch (" Piss-off, Mycroft. I never want to see your smug face again") and the general chit-chat (" I have a case. Three terror cells are going to attack London. The case is too boring, so I thought it might challenge you, Sherlock." )... Similar to a normal family.

However, Mycroft noticed this time something was different. After the pleasantries were exchanged, Sherlock sat on his armchair, plucking absently at the strings of his violin, staring into the fireplace, and doing a wonderful work of ignoring the other man.

"You have not eaten for a day.." Mycroft observed, but he got no reply from the consulting detective, who merely stared, silently into the fire, as the sky outside darkened from a deep crimson to a calm, midnight blue, littered with countless glowing stars, some obscured by the pollution of the city, others shining through the barriers that separated them from the earth, and its minute inhabitants.

"Sherlock?"

"Why have you not kept a goldfish yet, Mycroft?" The question, though sharp, was asked in a soft tone, that belied it's cutting nature.

The older man took a second to formulate an answer. One, that would be fitting, yet not condescending. For, Sherlock asking him questions on such topics, that dealt with emotions, meant that he was in a dilemma of sorts over it, and however acerbic their usual exchanges were, he lost the will to be sarcastic at this unusually tender moment.

"Because I cannot." He said, finally, only to be greeted by silence. However, this silence was not the one the moody detective would keep for days on end.. This was a non-verbal encouragement for the elder Holmes to continue.

"Because, I cannot bring myself to care. Keeping a goldfish means that I will have to pay attention to them, give them time.. You know as well as me how hard it is. For both of us, to be unselfish over petty, mundane things. And loving someone, Sherlock, means that one must have a great grasp of every minuscule detail of their lover, every need catered to precisely, every emotion to be understood without saying a word. To be able to discern their mood by a flick of their eyebrow, their thoughts by the pattern of their drumming, their desires by untold words.. It is too much. Too much a burden for us to bear, and too much of a waste to invest in."

He stopped, looking at his brother, who still seemed to be lost in thought. Why ask such a question, Sherlock? Have you found someone who is willing to put up with your idiosyncrasies, bear your multitudes of boredom, wit, intelligence, and not uttering a single syllable of complaint against it? Or have you grown soft, the two years of loneliness, lack of familiar faces, and tired worry finally showing upon your psyche?

"Who is it?" He asked after a few moments, as the fireplace crackled brightly, the strings were twanged mournfully, and the hearth, unlike the heart of these two men, was warm and inviting.

There was no reply to the question, of course there was no reply. Who is it? The words were suspended between the brothers like a sheet of water, obscuring itself from both. The Holmes brothers were never said to be human. They never loved. They only admired, respected, or snubbed, never loved. In their hearts, there was only places for mummy, logic and intelligence, in that order. Anything threatening their internal world was decimated by them, quickly and without much thought by Sherlock, slowly and in measured, calculated steps by Mycroft.

Maybe if he followed every activity of Sherlock's, then he might find out. But it was obviously someone who they both knew, else Sherlock would have spoken about that person. Who did they both know?

"John is to be married, brother.."

Ah, there. The desired effect. Sherlock shifted ever so little, moving a little more away from Mycroft, not facing him, still plucking on the strings like as though he had forgotten he was doing it.

"I hope you prepared a proper Best-Mans Speech.. Make John proud, with your abilities to blend in." Mycroft prattled on, not for the sake of talking, but to gauge Sherlock's reactions.

Once he finished, he was greeted by silence again. Oh well, worth an effort. He turned to the ignored cup of tea on the little stand by his side, reaching out to put the cup to his lips when he was interrupted.

"John is leaving me."

Sighing, he took a sip, before setting the cup down again. Oh brother dear.. I told you caring is not an advantage. To care means that you give up your peace of mind, your happiness, for anothers. You sacrifice to keep the other contented, and most of the times, it goes waste.

"I have said this before.."

"So don't say it"

Ignoring the barb, Mycroft continued, unperturbed.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken.. Caring is not an-"

"-Advantage. I know, Mycroft. Yet I cannot help myself upon this matter. To care for John is, in some manners, second nature to me." Sherlock looked up at him, his multi-coloured eyes reflecting the fire-light, making the gold flecks in them glow.

"He is so vulnerable. Ordinary, yes, but unique in his composition. An army surgeon. Highly qualified, yet bemoaning the lack of thrill. On getting it, he accepts it happily, not willing to let go. Afraid that if he does, life would be bleak for him.." Sherlock turns his gaze back to the burning flames.

"And yet, you took it away." Mycroft completed, without pause. Sherlock said nothing for a few moments more, as the blaze crackled in the flat, warming its two occupants.

"Well, then. I suppose it is fair that he leave you." The 'minor' government official gave his verdict, as he took another silent sip of tea, basking in the warmth the flames had to offer against the chilly night air, outside the flat.

"I suppose too." this was said almost quietly, as if the acceptance of the fact that John, his Watson, was going to leave him and go away, to live with another woman, who he loved and cherished, was a betrayal of sorts to their friendship. And Mary? He liked Mary. She was smart, quiet, yet fun loving, charming, witty.. Everything John would have wanted. Everything Sherlock was. And yet, John decided to leave _him _and marry _her. _

_Why would he do that?_

Was the fact that he spent two years, running from people, hiding, pulling down networks, reputations, lives, not enough testimony of the simple, oh-so-obvious fact that Sherlock loved John, in his own ways? That he was prepared to do almost anything, _anything_ to keep him alive, to let him live, and not die by the hands of some unknown face, a face without remorse or pity, the fact that he accepted John's girlfriend, Mary, without another word at her, that he _came back_ from his hiatus,just to meet John again and not keep him in the dark thoughts of him being dead. Was it not proof enough? He loved John, in a manner that transcended all physical boundaries.. He thought of John as his emotional equal, his other part, the human side. While he was the mind, John was the heart. While he would take things apart, analyse every little piece, John would put things together, see a whole picture. While Sherlock would be at home in chaos, John would bring in his excessive, military style orderliness into his mind. They were so unlike, yet alike. The beacon and the conductor of light. One without another. That is what they are now, yes? John was going away, leaving Sherlock to adjust back into his old life. In six months. Six months was all he got to return to his old habits, while John had nearly three years.

He stared more into the fireplace, as though he could shoot his growing, dark anger at being left alone, so suddenly, at the flames, and burn it up, throw it away, never look at it. He hated it, the flat was too quiet, the violin being his only solace. Mrs. Hudson did keep him company sometimes, but not always, unlike John, who was ready to listen to every eager deduction that was said in child-like excitement with the patience of an old man. Nobody, nobody could be him, yet now, he had to find a replacement.

Mycroft saw it all play over his brothers face, the thoughts morphing themselves into expressions as the corners of Sherlock's lips seemed to fall downward even further, almost as if to meet his jaw. He understood why his brother felt thus.. Sherlock had acted quite similarly when their first and last pet dog was to be put down, because of old age. However, this was different.

"Sherlock, John is not Redbeard. He will return to meet you.. I can assure you as much." Mycroft said, hoping to offer some resemblance if comfort in those words. A younger, louder Sherlock had been sucked into the vortex of depression over the death of their only dog, and had not spoken to anyone for a week. Until Mycroft and mummy finally cajoled and consoled him out of it. This, Mycroft mused unhappily, was a similar sequence of the same events. Sherlock would go into a fit of silence, maybe alienate John more in an attempt to protect himself from further pain, or throw himself so deep into a case that he would not remember the existence of his own transport, let alone notice the presence (or absence) of others.

"Just.. Let him go. Do not get too involved, for your involvement into this would only make the inevitable more prolonged and painful.." Mycroft said, taking a sip of the cold tea. He would have to monitor his brother more now.. This loneliness could kill him. John could make or break his brother, and now he was shattering him into infinite little pieces, that would never be found, no matter how much one searched. He had to be protected, Mycroft thought, from the harsh realities of separation now.

Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?


	2. Who Leaves A Wedding Early?

"How was the wedding?"

The look he got in return said it all. It was dark, drowning with hurt, and the pain of deep loneliness etched across the expression of the man's face.

"I presume you did not stay for the actual party, did you, brother?" Mycroft asked, casually, as he poured two glasses of Sullivan's Cove French Oak Cask, before seating himself in front of the fireplace, beside Sherlock.

Without another word, he handed Sherlock the Scotch, as he sipped his own, enjoying the deep, smoky flavours rumble and roll over his tongue, making their expensive tastes heard. That, coupled with the warm fireplace against the sudden chilly nip in the winter air made him much more comfortable than usual. He liked spring, though there was not much choice when one lived in a city like London. However, he always kept the fireplace burning, the actual kind, mind you, not the electrical ones, for he did enjoy the warm, basking, musky smell of freshly burning wood, crackling in the fire. It would have been Mycroft's ideal evening, sitting here, merely relaxing, not thinking about the world or how it was balanced atop a knife edge, any sudden movements sending it spiralling down to its doom, were it not for the fact that his younger brother was sitting here, beside him, quietly, like a large stone statue, lost deep in a contemplative thought that would extend itself into the very fine webbings of the universe, bringing out forth the various types of symphonies that each human dances to-

"Sherlock?"

The only discernable movement was from the eyes, while the rest of the transport stayed the same.

Mycroft said no more, only waited for a verbal response. To not talk, when something happened, was in some form, unlike Sherlock. The younger Holmes took great delight at every opportunity to tell his brother about what happened, especially when Mycroft was unaware about it. This scenario should have been no exception, but it was, for Sherlock seemed to have no inclination to talk.

There was no reply, for quite a while, as Sherlock took a few sips of the whiskey, his face passive as ever, no expression upon it except that of complete blankness. Something would have happened, something very deep, that made his brother so unusually pensive. It brought to mind a phrase he had once used, to try and describe his brother to John, in the most simplest terms possible. And, yet, John was unable to grasp it completely, dismissing it as a myth from one of the two enigmas in his life, before he went upstairs to the other one.

This time, however, he had an answer to the question. And though it was not pleasing, or in the least, ideal, it was a fact, a true thing about the state of Sherlock's functional but scarred mind and non-existent but torn heart.

_My brother has the mind of a scientist and a philosopher. What might we deduce about his heart?_

Broken.

He gazed still, at his brother, who's eyes fell upon the glass held in his nimble hands, softening at the sight of the liquid. Sherlock took a tentative sip, never the actual whiskey drinker, before resuming his eternal staring competition with the fireplace.

"I presume Dr. And Mrs. Watson know about your departure." This was asked with a quiet undercurrent to it. _I hope John knows how pained you are by all this.._

"No. But they would have discovered by now.." Sherlock finally rumbled from the confines of his armchair, deciding to dispense a few words upon his brother, after all. _John does not know, and he will never. I will see to that._

"Well, then I suppose he would have tried contacting you to understand where you went, and to be assured of your safety." Mycroft replied, taking another sip, losing himself to the flavours yet again, the heady concoction of all his favourite things in one room, and some very dear to his frigid heart too. He looked again, silently, into the fireplace, just trying to enjoy this pure moment of conversational silence, one that need not be filled by words or unnecessary noises and sounds. One that could be enjoyed as such, without it being polluted or wreaked by other elements. The sound of silence, punctuated by the crackling of wood, and the puffs of even breaths.

I hope, brother dear, you can separate yourself from this all before it is too late. I certainly hope you have not forgotten your independent ways, Sherlock. It had helped you survive for so long, and it will help you always. I truly wish, however, that this incident does not make you shy away from all human relations, for however much we might despise them, we still need them.

"Your thoughts are murdering me with their stupidity, Mycroft. Do stop." This was uttered in an indifferent tone, that Mycroft knew was hiding something else. An inflection of the unemotional and cold attitude he was trying to potray from the outside, to the general world, to protect himself on the inside.

If you really are not affected, then why leave the party early, Sherlock? Why leave John on the day of his wedding, and return alone. And then visit me? Why would you take all this trouble?

"Well, they are still better than yours, Sherlock." Mycroft retorted, taking another small, slow sip from his glass.

"Did you dance?" He asked, after another long moment.

"No."

"Why so ever not?" This was asked with a surprised intonation. Sherlock loved dancing, and would never let up an opportunity when he would have to dance. He once even took some cases that needed him to take the role of a dancer, and, Mycroft would never admit, but his brother was wonderful in it.

After all, one of Sherlock's numerous talents were to be able to match a beat to a tune, a song to a rhythm, and to show the flow of a song in choreographed steps came almost enviously easily for Sherlock. Mycroft had admired his dancing skills greatly, and often, especially when he would dance alone, able to bring out the beauty, grace and hidden strength of a dance, along with the myriad emotions potrayed by a song, into one lithe, petite but tall body, that flew over the floor, flowed across the steps, and executed it all with the precision of a well trained marksman. Such was the calibre of his brother, and yet, when given a chance..

"I did not feel like it. Nobody else wanted to." Sherlock stated simply, stripping his shoes off so that he could pull his feet up and sit near the fireplace, wrapping one hand around his skinny knees as the other held the glass in one hand, heating the scotch a little. And at that moment, Mycroft did not see Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the New Scotland Yard, nay, he saw Sherlock Holmes, child prodigy, lonely but aloof, too scared to make friends or trust anybody, never giving in easily to emotions.

"Anything interesting that happened there?" Mycroft asked again, this time attempting to make conversation with his brother, to be on the more civil side, while disguising his attempt at the belittling fact that he could mot understand what happened at the wedding.

"There was an attempted murder. Nothing more." Came the curt reply.

So there was much more. Nobody died, you should have been excited, but you are not, Sherlock. Why is that? What else did you discover?

"Who did it?" He asked, simply curious about the case, along with trying to decode his brother's thoughts.

"The wedding photographer. It was connected to the 'May-Fly Man' case, as John had so eloquently put in his blog." Sherlock said, clearly still dismissive of the idea that John's blog, the one created without real art or science, constructed upon the ramblings of... Their lives, had gained more popularity than that of his own, a perfectly executed, well-worded piece of eruditive writing. If nothing else, it peeved him.

"Is that so? Well, I must see the blog then.." Mycroft commented drily, hinting at the popularity, and at the declining stature of his own brothers blogs.

Sherlock unwrapped his arm from around his legs, putting them down, standing up, and walking over to the closed window, looking out at the crisp, clear and bright night sky.

"Say it, Mycroft. Rather hear it from the mouth than be bombarded by confounded and muddled thoughts." Sherlock spat the words out again, as the bitterness of the situation took over him, much like the taste of the scotch over his tongue, coating it.

" I have nothing to say,Sherlock." He replied, quietly, taking a quick sip, as he gazed into the fireplace.

"Don't be ridiculous, you clearly do." Sherlock said, turning to face Mycroft, as he spoke, rooted to his spot by the window, but clearly itching to pace.

" You were trying to pry out how I felt about John being married, and thereby, leaving. I am completely fine, thank you for your concern, Mycroft. The fact was accepted eons ago, and I believe we both know that John's presence in my life, or absence, hereafter, has no effect whatsoever. In fact, without John, it is almost.." Lonely. It was. And most definitely not the same, but his pride would not allow him to admit such a thing, be it his arch-nemesis, or his own brother, and in this case, both. He sighed, turning to look out of the window, gazing at the serene scenery outside.

Mycroft remained absolutely quiet throughout the outburst, for outburst it was, as he looked quietly into the fireplace. After a few long, silent moments of deep contemplation, he looked up at the silhouette of his brother, framed against the night sky, the edges blurred out with the deep blue-black of the scene outside, the rest of him melting into it, save for the moonlight that illuminated his curls. He sighed at the image, knowing how his brother was melting from the inside, like molten wax, losing himself over one emotion.

Sentiment.

Sighing still, he finished his scotch, rising from his seat to admire the view once, before turning to exit the room. It had been a long day, and he was quite tired, without having to deal with Sherlock's idiosyncrasies of emotions, and his multitudes of theories, all based on philosophy.

Perhaps some other time, brother, he thought, as he left the room, walking down the moon-lit corridor, stopping for a second to gaze at the view outside. The moon was breath-taking in its simplistic beauty, making Mycroft's breath catch in his throat for a second. It was.. Beautiful. Just as ever. And untouchable.

Sherlock, however, was too wrapped in his own pensive mind to admire the beauty of the night-sky outside. It brought to mind one of the many fairy tales he had heard as a child.

_Have you ever seen the moon? It is the brightest. Amongst the night sky, it sits, proud and shining, reflected light giving earth the much needed vision in the night. Surrounded by the admiring stars, it preens in the attention poured upon it like water on a river-bed. It's beauty makes many a hearts stop, and weep in wonder and amazement, it's stature gives it the glow._

_And yet... It is always lonely. Why?_

Because it can never have anyone close to it. To see from near the ugly marks that tear through its surface, giving it the appearance of a once beautiful courtesan, who was too proud to show her scars of ageing. The moon is a vain mistress, it never wanted to expose its weaknesses, its deformities, the dips and peaks upon it's surface. Nothing, no star ever got close enough to see the true face and nature of the noon, a broken, lonely asteroid, reflecting the light of the sun to others, always doomed to stay by itself, admired from afar, but never truly loved. Except by...

The earth. Solid, stable, ever-present. At first glance, it was just another sphere shaped rock spinning on an axis around yet another star in the vast expanse of the ever-increasing universe. On closer inspection, however, it was more than just that.

The earth held life in itself, nurturing it, feeding it, helping it grow. It brought happiness to many, saved nearly all, and is home to many a souls.. And it is little known that, before the moon was a moon, the earth had taken it into its orbit too, keeping the satellite around itself with its gravitational field.

Before the moon was a moon, the earth had accepted it as beautiful. And before Sherlock had become human, John had accepted him as his best friend.

But what purpose did that friendship serve now, other than to cause more pain? He disliked it, how it hurt him so, to think that he lost his only, true friend in this world, the one man he had come to trust above anything else. What utility did sentiment serve other than as a weakness?

Bittered by these thoughts, he turned away, but the full moon caught his eye, beckoning him to admire her as a lover would his love. And in that moment, he felt it, the little drops of ice-cold loneliness worm its way into the place where he possessed a heart, just for Johns sake, and stopping it. In that infinitesimal moment, Sherlock felt his mind harden, and his heart stutter to a stop. He had lost his final but of humanity, and this time, he will not retrieve it again.

About that time, a thought occurred to Mycroft too. One that alarmed him beyond reason, allowed him to also see Sherlock in a new light, one he had never perceived of before. The thought made him stop again, and wonder, of the future, of the things that lay ahead. Better or worse. Though deep down, he knew it would be worse.

After all, the frailty of a genius lay in it's audience, and Sherlock just lost his.


End file.
